Kevin Durant Doesn't Care What You Think of Him

He's the NBA's most unstoppable scorer, but the knock on him so far is that he's too nice to be like Mike, too quiet to dethrone King James. Don't believe it. Yes, Kevin Durant might kill you with kindness—but he's as deadly as any superstar alive

A five-time NBA All-Star, a four-time scoring champion, a Rookie of the Year, and the league’s reigning Most Valuable Player walk into a coffee shop in San Francisco’s Mission District as the sun is still burning off the fog, and the cashier says: "Name, please?"

Kevin Durant looks down at her from a vast height, something like relief on his face. Then he turns to me, like: Let me enjoy this_._

So I give my name instead. The kind woman behind the counter says the tall gentleman’s hot chocolate will be ready momentarily. My coffee, too. Durant says his mom used to wake him up at three in the morning and make him to go to 7-Eleven to get her a coffee. At 10 years old. He was like, Damn, this is what caffeine does to a person? Still doesn’t drink it. Prefers hot chocolate—a 26-year-old with the taste buds of a 10-year-old boy.

That’s the reputation, right? Basketball freak, a man on the court but still a child off it? Momma’s boy. Too nice to hurt anybody, ever.

Well. Not exactly.

Take the conversation we’re having right now. Two guys on stools in a coffee shop talking about girls. His heart still not quite right after hurting someone he loved. "I had a fiancée, but...I really didn’t know how to, like, love her, you know what I’m saying? We just went our separate ways." Monica Wright, WNBA player, something like a high school sweetheart. One night Kevin got so full of feelings he just up and proposed to her. "We was just hanging out, chilling. And I felt the energy. I felt, I need to do this right now. And I just did it. I was like...We’re engaged right now? We’re about to get married? So I was just like, cool! I love this girl. But I didn’t love her the right way."

Outside this coffee shop, there are multiple millions of people representing multiple millions of dollars—shoe companies, league ecutives, agents, little kids with big KD posters on their walls—with opinions on what he should and should not be saying at this particular moment. A whole universe bending to be like: _Talk about your will to succeed. Your work in the community. How you know what it takes to win. _

But what he wants to say right now is this: "I go to sleep at night, like, ’Am I gonna be alone forever?’ " A whole ocean of regret. His life too hectic, and too surrounded by money, to trust, let alone love, the next person who comes through that door.

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"Am I gonna be alone forever? Am I gonna have kids?"

Almost seven feet tall in a sweat suit, body like God wanted him to be this good.

"I feel like there’s no hope. But I still gotta have faith."

A few years ago, he probably wouldn’t have said any of this out loud. But he likes himself more than he used to. Likes talking this way. A sad subject, sure, but he’s not sad to talk about it. Talking about it is freedom.

The reigning MVP. Gets picked first or second in the all-galaxy pickup game, depending on how you feel about LeBron. Immortality a championship or two away. Already in that weird place where nothing he says or does belongs just to him. His basic decency—try to find tape of this guy throwing a tantrum, or even rolling his eyes at a coach or a teammate—turned into a flaw (He’s too nice to win a championship!) and then, worse, an actual Nike marketing campaign (#KDISNOTNICE). His inner life subject to our feelings of ownership.

For example, the bracingly generous MVP speech he gave last spring. "One of the greatest off-the-floor moments in NBA history," Bill Simmons called it. I agree.

He didn’t practice it. Had a piece of paper. Before going onstage, he wrote: "Mom. Teammates."

"Then I had, right under ’Teammates,’ there was another bullet point that said ’Russell. [Thunder coach] Scott Brooks. Thank the media. Thank the fans.’ "

Gets up in front of the cameras with no real idea of what he’s going to say. Looks down at the paper, sees Mom. "And it was like, all right."

I come from a small county outside of Washington, D.C., called PG County....

The tears came pretty soon after that. "I didn’t know I was gonna cry. But I never cried as a kid."

He stops. Tells me he just cried today, in fact. "I watched this video about this guy, his son got killed in front of a nightclub in Miami. And he was shouting at his son’s murderer and just crying. I just started bawling. And I was just like, man, I’ve been so emotional since I’ve grown up. As a kid you’re taught not to be emotional. And I feel like I’m starting to let it all out. Every little thing now. So I cried today. And I felt good about it, though. I felt compassionate. I felt, like, loving and caring. I felt good."

He pauses again. "I think, as a nation, we need to cry with each other. As a world, we need to cry with each other. That shows we care."

Anyway, back to the speech. Thanks his teammates, one by one. Saves Russell Westbrook, his Wile E. Coyote cartoon of a point guard, for last, as if maybe he forgot him entirely.

"I fucked with him a little bit on that," the nicest guy in the league says now, laughing.

I know you guys think I forgot Russ. But I could speak all night about Russell. An emotional guy who will run through a wall for me....

He gets to his mom and can’t even get the words out. A whole nation wide-eyed at the moment.

You went to sleep hungry. You sacrificed for us. You the real MVP....

You the real MVP_._ People repeating it in awe at work the next day. And then in a week, less than a week, people repeating it with heretic glee, joking about it even. It becomes a punch line, something guys on Reddit say to one another. A virtual high five over a comic Vine. You the real MVP, person who actually pays for Netflix_._

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"I was like, man, that was a real emotional moment for me, and you making a joke about it! Like: Damn. Y’all don’t really believe in shit. You don’t have no morals or nothing. You don’t care about nothing but just making fun."

How are you supposed to act in the world, when people feel entitled even to a moment like that?

"I was serious as hell saying that, you know what I’m saying?"

The guy who’s supposed to be the nicest guy in the league exhales.

"But after a while, it’s all good."

What matters is that he said it.

He came offstage and his mom said, "I didn’t know you felt that way about me!"

He rejects his nickname, the Slim Reaper, as ungodly. He’s not here to be the guy of, "I guess, death," as he once said. Grew up in full fear of God, in fact. He was raised to think: "If I do something wrong, I’m going to hell." Then he met Carl Lentz, who ministers to Justin Bieber and sometimes leads prayers before Knicks games. Carl taught him God was about love. Before, "I felt like I had to follow the Ten Commandments. But we don’t live by that no more. We live by the blood of Jesus. That’s how I feel."

But then you watch him enter the arena one Monday night in Oakland to play the Golden State Warriors, something singularly lethal moving through the corridors of Oracle Arena—love isn’t the first word that comes to mind. "When I’m on the court," he says, "I’m a total asshole. I’m a dick. I don’t talk to the other team. If I fall on somebody, I throw them to the ground, I’m not helping them up. I just feel like it’s a war mode. Like, they’re trying to kill me, but I gotta kill them before they kill me."

How do people not see this? he wonders. If people only knew how he really felt about things when the game is involved. This is a person who can hardly watch basketball when he’s not playing it. "I just don’t like other teams or other players. I can’t sit there. I feel like I’m supporting them by watching it. I hope you have a bad game. Because I’m such a hater! I thought it was a bad trait I had. I was like, Man, am I jealous? Why do I hate this guy? But I hope both of the teams lose! That’s how I feel."

Anyway, the Thunder get blown out in Oakland. As they will again, a couple of nights later, in Sacramento, before rebounding at home against the Utah Jazz. Strange season for the Thunder and Kevin Durant. Not quite right so far. Going back to Team USA this summer, which Durant was on, until one day he wasn’t. A refreshingly self-interested decision, from a guy whose brand is never being self-interested. "I just didn’t feel like playing. Simple. I was good, mentally, physically. I just wanted to have the rest of my summer to myself." Fair enough. But then he got hurt anyway. Durant fractured his right foot, missed seventeen games, came back, lit it up, injured his ankle, missed six more games, came back again. The Thunder now destined to spend the season scrapping just for an eight seed in a conference they were favored to win.

And lurking over it all, the question of where he’ll be after his contract runs out in 2016. Everyone jockeying for his attention, his devotion, his loyalty. Loyalty being a word Kevin Durant has had to become wise to. He heard the Sterling tapes like everyone else. "When that came out, we was just like, ’Oh, so that’s how they feel about us?’ " All this rhetoric about team, about loyalty. And then guys like Sterling basically acting in private like their players are property. "When players do stuff that benefits them, they’re looked at as unloyal, selfish," Durant says. "But when a team decides to go the other way and cut a player, or not bring him back or not re-sign him, it’s what’s best for the team, and that’s cool. But what we do is frowned upon, you know?"

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Don’t forget, Kevin Durant was not selfish: He signed a full extension in 2010, no opt-outs. He remembers that, even if no one else does, even as he anticipates the lurking storm of recrimination that awaits him if he doesn’t re-up again. "I was loyal. If it comes down to that, I mean: I was. My deal’s up in 2016. I’ll have been here nine years. I could have easily wanted out. I could have easily not signed the extension after my rookie contract. I could have not played as hard every night. But people tend to forget." Same thing happened to LeBron James, when he switched teams and they burned his jersey. Kevin watched it like, Damn_._ "This is not just a game for us. This is life. Like, we live and die and breathe by basketball. We’re away from our families to entertain other people."

Were the Thunder being loyal to Durant and his teammates when they traded James Harden, two and a half years ago, breaking up the best young core in the league in order to save a few luxury-tax dollars? Has the team ever really given Durant what he needs to win? Durant has been asked this question so many times he may not realize that he’s begun answering it honestly. "Players are paid to do their jobs, no matter who’s on the court. And as superstars, you gotta lead what you have. You gotta make them better. Some players might be better than others. Some teams might be better than others. You gotta do your job, and you gotta trust that the front office is going to do their job. It’s hard, though. You know what I’m saying? Because it’s like, shit, I want win. Obviously our players aren’t as good as, you know, than they were before. But you have to figure it out."

So you can ask him about D.C., about the prospect of coming home, sentimental montages on the JumboTron, he and LeBron defining some new sports era in which powerful athletes work their way back to the courts that birthed them and win championships for their little cousins and their little cousins’ friends. Geography becoming destiny. Destiny becoming dollars. But who knows, really? "I just don’t know who’s gonna be competitive, who’s not gonna be, you know? That’s why I can’t really think too far in my mind. Because you don’t know who’s going to be where. You know what I’m saying? It’s something you can’t control."

Control. Another word you hear Kevin Durant say a lot these days. He recently moved, got out of the place he shared with a bunch of his friends. "I simplified everything this last year. It’s easier to kind of control now. There’s not a lot of crazy parts moving in my life anymore. I’m by myself."

And why would D.C. be the promised land, anyway? He was so lonely there. Mom just 21 when she had Kevin. Dad lived in the neighborhood but not there. "I remember we were driving home one day, and I look over out the backseat, and I see him in a car with his homeboys at the light. I wanted to be like, ’Ma, that’s Dad, right?’ " But he didn’t say anything. Mom didn’t want to talk about it. Her son tall, shy, good at ball but lost away from the court. "I had no friends at 12 years old, 13 years old." Had God but God didn’t give him that talent. "I wasn’t born with a jump shot. Because I know! I started shooting my jump shot, like, from the side. Like this." His long arms swim way outside, somewhere far off to the right of his body. "And I worked on it. I don’t think people are born with skills. You’re born with the ability to tap into your skills. Like humility. Maturity. Work ethic. Just wanting to be better."

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Dad came back, eventually: "I was just like, Damn, man, that’s tight! My dad here! He would pick me up from school. Me, him, and my brother would just chill and play video games together and go eat before we go in the house. Having a dad around for that year, year and a half, it was just like, Man, this is so tight! I wish we could have had this every single day."

He’s that kid again, just talking about it.

Dad left again: "I was like, Damn. I was really hurt. That was the first time I’d ever been hurt by anything. I’m always used to, like, keeping it inside, and it’d go away in a day. But I was like, Damn, man,so we can’t play video games together no more? We can’t laugh at jokes? We can’t wrestle? We would wrestle every day in the living room and shit. It was the coolest thing. And then, like, when he left, it was just like, Damn, we can’t do all that stuff no more? It’s boring now. Because I’m by myself."

I’m by myself_._ Those moments bubbling up in the present tense. Even now that he and his dad are square. One of his best friends, in fact. Came back when Kevin was 16 and stayed this time, just in time to help him through all the scary adult things that the second-best high school prospect in the country had to go through. Made him feel safe. Four high schools, college, the draft, Seattle, Oklahoma City. Moving every year. People he loved disappearing around him.

On his stomach, a tattoo of his grandmother’s house. Headquarters. The whole family used to hang out there. One Thursday night he watched Aunt Pearl die there. Like, right in front of him. He was just 11 years old. Cancer, though he didn’t know that. She started coughing up blood. "Like, pouring water. Blood was coming out of her. You could just see everything leaving. Coughing up blood for like thirty minutes. And she died right in front of me. And when she died, I hopped into bed with her and just sat there and chilled with her. Because I knew. I knew what had happened. That was the first person I really lost. And that was the first time—I was numb to it, I was numb to death, because I didn’t think it would happen, but it happened so close to me. And I didn’t know what to think. Is this real? Should I cry? What should I do? I don’t know what to do. Then my coach died."

Charles Craig, Durant’s first AAU coach, shot in the back after breaking up a fight. Dead at 35. Why Kevin Durant wears 35 now.

These days he barely even goes back to D.C. Family reunions, that’s about it. Spends most of that time hiding in the hotel. "It gets overwhelming. So many people, man. Everybody wants a piece of you."

He’s working on being an adult. He’s doing it in full view of all of us. He’s got to battle the Kevin Durant that all of us already think we know: infinitely obliging, infinitely loyal, nice_._ And he is nice. But nice like anyone else is nice—decent guys you went to high school with, co-workers you go halves on lunch with, that kind of nice. Not nice like the caricature that used to circulate: some angel of peace sent to the world’s basketball courts to put up cruelty-free jump shots. Smiling, taking photos, always, always saying the quote-unquote right thing. "I didn’t want to let anybody down. I didn’t want to make anybody feel less than what they are."

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Growing up where he grew up, playing basketball the way he grew up playing it, certain things got put on hold away from the wood. Self-confidence, self-belief—something as simple as saying no occasionally. "I had to learn that stuff as I grew, you know? I just started really, like, feeling comfortable about three years ago. Like I was smart enough to join a conversation with somebody." Took his first vacation ever, just this past summer. Maui. Zip-lining, scuba diving, volcanoes. Wine! He’s been trying to get into wine. One night at dinner, a farm-to-table-type spot in Sacramento, he tries a red, which is new for him—until now it’s been sweet whites. Barely touches the glass, but still.

We even trade drinking stories. (Calm down, shareholders in Kevin Durant. Deep breaths.) The one he tells involves a wedding, Don Julio, crutches, and waking up the next morning unable to vomit anywhere but over the side of his bed; mine involves a good friend and an entire bottle of scotch, and he looks at me with big startled eyes and asks: How many shots in a bottle of scotch?

All these unanswered questions, still, like: how to become a man when everyone’s watching? Or: What is burrata? What does whale taste like? He’s been all over the world trying to figure it all out. "What’s the craziest place you’ve been where you had to taste, like, a piece of their culture?" he asks me. "You been anywhere like that? Like outside of the country, maybe, and you had to really get into their culture? You ever been somewhere like that?"

The waiter comes by, the city of Sacramento teetering on his shoulders. Thunder-Kings game tomorrow night. Kinda clears his throat. "Take it easy on us tomorrow, okay?"

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